Certain major holidays contain a measure of dread for me. Father’s Day is one of those.
None of the kids called. One texted really late, explaining that the day was busy.
One sent a series of texts the next day, wishing for my speedy demise and spewing anger and hatred.
The recurring voice in my head says “If you wanted recognition, you should have been a better father.”
I’m trying to accept this reality without completely breaking down.
